


Asphyxiation, decapitation, knife through the eye, bullet in the head

by ignipes



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-28
Updated: 2006-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-03 05:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Code to "Nightmare."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asphyxiation, decapitation, knife through the eye, bullet in the head

The waitress taps her pen on the pad impatiently.

Under the table, Dean kicks Sam in the shin. Sam winces and glares across the table, reaches down to rub his leg. "What?"

Dean nods at the waitress. "Order?"

"Oh." Sam sits upright and smiles apologetically at the waitress; her dour expression doesn't change. "I - um - I'll just have the coffee, thanks."

Dean rolls his eyes as the waitress walks away. "You'll be hungry later."

"I'm fine."

"You better not start bitching at me to stop for something in an hour."

Sam looks at him steadily for a second then turns toward the window with a shrug. "I won't. I don't much feel like eating."

He doesn't explain, but this is one of those times when figuring out what's going on inside that big shaggy head of Sam's isn't exactly rocket science. Asphyxiation, decapitation, knife through the eye, bullet in the head. Hell of a collection to have playing in your head, Dean thinks, sipping his coffee and watching Sam watch the street outside.

"Do you think-" Sam stops.

When he doesn't go on, Dean raises an eyebrow. "Believe it or not, I do, sometimes."

Sam's lips quirk in the tiniest not-quite-a-smile. "You must do it when I'm not around." He picks up his mug but doesn't drink. "But, seriously, do you think - do you think there are others? Besides me and Max."

Dean hesitates. Once is a tragedy, but twice is a pattern. One of the first rules of hunting, of seeking out and finding the things that everyone else overlooks. Twice is a pattern. Jim Murphy told him that, years ago, on a cold winter night while Dad was dozing in the arm chair by the fire and Sammy was curled up asleep on the sofa.

But he says, "I don't know."

"I mean, did Dad ever-"

Dean shakes his head. "I don't know, Sam."

Sam opens his mouth like he's going to ask more, but something in his expression shifts. He looks down at the table, spends a few seconds ripping the edge of his napkin, then looks back up at Dean. "Did you call him?"

Asphyxiation, decapitation, knife through the eye, bullet in the head.

_Hey, Dad. Long time, no see. Sam's having visions that come true. He sees people die. He saw me die and he moved furniture with his brain. It gives him headaches. Sucks to be him, right? Don't suppose you know anything about this? Just wondering._

"No," Dean says, and he knows he doesn't sound as careless as he wants. "Do you want to?"

"It's not like it'll do any-" Sam shrugs, carefully gathers the scraps of paper napkin into a pile. "No. Not really."

For the first time in months, Dean agrees.

Asphyxiation, decapitation, knife through the eye, bullet in the head.

The words rattle through his mind. It could almost be a nursery rhyme. Catchy, easy to remember. Sometimes it's Max's strained, angry, frightened voice reciting them over and over again, and sometimes it's Sam's.

When the waitress brings Dean's breakfast, he shoves the plate of toast across the table at Sam and doesn't even bother with _told you so_ when Sam eats it without protest.


End file.
